Kuufuku
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: Sequel to Dakimakura. All Sam wants is Dean his, happy, and growing. That doesn't exactly line up with their father's ideas about what the two of them should be. WARNING: Contains Weecest, weight gain, stuffing, chubby!Dean, skinny!Sam, and abusive!John


**This was a collaboration with the incredible fuckntoast on Twitter, who drew some truly beautiful illustrations for Dakimakura and this story. I'll be posting that art on my Twitter ( banishing_rune) soon!**

It was early morning, school freshly started in a place they wouldn't be longer than a couple more weeks, and Sam was cracking eggs into a battle-scarred pan with shaking fingers.

The room's hot plate was unreliable but it'd done better than usual this morning, good enough to get bacon and the eggs both fried up without too much issue. Maybe it knew that these were a treat, splurged on down at the grocery store because yellow stickers had popped up on them since the last time Sam'd looked. He turned the plate off, set the pan down, pulled the money Dad left with him and not Dean out of his pocket, and counted it even though he already knew how much was there. He ran a couple quick calculations in his head. How much the room ate up, how much they had to spend on gas.

Sam sighed heavily to himself, then scraped all the bacon and eggs onto one cheap plate, being sure to drizzle the grease from the butter he'd fried them in all over the top. He put the other plate back in the cabinet with the cock-eyed door.

This room was one of those that was technically three. Living area-slash-kitchen, bedroom, postage-stamp bathroom, all separated from each other by doors that didn't lock. Didn't cost more than a regular room because of how rough a shape it was in. Sam went into the bedroom, where Dean was still laying down in nothing but boxers and the amulet that might as well have been part of his body, sheets tangled haphazardly over him.

The Minnesota nights were cold for Sam (hell, the days kinda were, too), even in August, but Dean had always run hot and he had better insulation now than ever before. Sam slipped his feet out of his ragged sneakers and crawled back into bed, snuggling up alongside his brother, thinking maybe he had a couple minutes before the eggs started getting cold. He should've realized Dean wasn't asleep, probably hadn't been since Sam got up.

Dean rolled over, round belly settling heavy against the saggy spring mattress, and smiled at Sam. It squished his cheeks up. Sam smiled back, pulled Dean-warm covers over himself with a groan of satisfaction, and pointedly did not comment on the way Dean had scooted back to put a couple inches between them.

"Heard you making breakfast out there," Dean murmured, voice rough with sleep. "My little Betty Crocker."

He ruffled Sam's hair, and Sam preened. He moved forward, wanting to tuck his face into Dean's chest with a happy little coo, his knees up under his belly, but Dean was already rolling over again, pushing himself up and out of bed without Sam ever getting to feel his softness. Sam felt a hot little lightning flicker of resentment at the core of him, but not aimed at Dean.

Jeans and boots and T-shirt and flannel and jacket on, Dean frowned at the one plate on the table soon as he got out there. Sitting down, he glanced at Sam. "You eating anything?"

"I ate while I was making yours," Sam assured him. He poured himself his third cup of coffee, almost spilled it. The caffeine would help, and the sugar and milk he had to stir into it to stand the bitter, burnt taste would be more than enough. He'd run through a whole day on way less before.

Dean's eyes were on Sam's hands, clasped around the warm, chipped mug, as he sat back down. "You sure you got enough?"

"I can make it 'til lunch," Sam assured him, and finally, Dean started to eat. Sam felt a weak twitch down between his legs as he watched Dean shovel in hot, greasy bacon and eggs. He smiled across the table and Dean, after a second of hesitation, smiled back.

Dean showered after breakfast. He didn't let Sam in the bathroom until after he was already under the spray, curtain drawn between them and clothes piled on the tiny counter, but Sam was still quietly thrilled about being admitted. He sat on the closed lid of the toilet, knees and feet pressed close together, basking in the steam and the heat as he watched the pink shape of Dean through the flimsy mildew of the shower curtain.

He was getting bigger, new weight piling on him, most of it centering in his belly. He could heft it in both hands now, let it drop to bounce and jiggle an inch from Sam's wet, panting mouth. Swollen love handles sat on top of wide, freckled hips that barely tapered down into the plush dreams of his thighs. His chest was a pillow, rock-hard pecs underneath, and the roundness of his face dropped into the swell under his softened jaw that Sam was just impatient enough to call a double chin, even if it wasn't _quite_ there just yet.

Sam wanted to see him without any clothes on and nothing between them. He didn't know when he'd ever figure out how to ask.

Or how to frame it in a way that wouldn't make him put a label on this...thing that they were doing, that they had going on. That they'd been playing with and building up for months.

"What're you doing today?" Sam asked. "In your classes."

"Hell if I know."

"I'm just watching a movie in fifth period." Sam took a heavy breath. "I can miss that no problem. So I was wondering...there's this really cheap Chinese place not far from the school, I thought you might wanna hit that. For lunch." Waiting for Dean's reply, he picked at his frayed hand-me-down jeans, held up by a belt with new notches in it.

Dean was silent. The water turned off with a rusty whine from the pipes, and Sam swallowed, thinking of the inches Dean kept between them in bed this morning. But Dad was two weeks gone on his latest hunt, the shape of him between them starting to go fuzzy around the edges, so when Dean grabbed a towel from behind the curtain and stepped out of the shower, he flashed Sam a teasing smile.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd swear you were trying to fatten me up," he said, and Sam grinned, giddy and relieved.

Dean was scalding pink with, for once, actual hot water, swells of muscle and fat blotched with toffee freckles, and Sam drank him in, somehow more naked with a towel knotted around his waist than boxers, even though it came down further and hid more with its looseness. His eyes wandered to a couple new scars, puffy, angry, healing. A benign bite on Dean's shoulder and claw marks so low on his thigh they almost took his kneecap off.

He'd been hunting a few times since that night with the pizza and the ice cream and the sweltering explosion between the two of them. And he was good at it. Sam thought that, when things went bad, it had a lot more to do with their father than with Dean's weight, but he knew that Dad and Dean, neither of them, really agreed.

Dean must have noticed Sam looking. His face got pinker, and he turned away from him with something a whole lot like shame. Sam swallowed, looked down at his battered sneakers. Dad might not be here. But two weeks wasn't long enough for what he'd carved into the two of them to fade. Sam was hit with a sudden burning flash of anger that nearly knocked him over, with not a whole lot in his stomach, and he had to take deep breaths and close his eyes to keep himself steady.

Dean was looking over his shoulder at him when Sam opened his eyes again. Sam smiled, and Dean went to get dressed.

Dad was with a hunting buddy who'd come and picked him up in a battered hatchback, so they had the Impala. Dean was all grins and appreciative hand-runs over the dashboard every single morning they climbed in, even though he'd had to hitch the steering wheel up so it didn't dig into his stomach.

Sam pretended not to notice, same way he pretended he didn't have an ulterior motive insisting on seatbelts when he never had before in his whole life. The worn-out cloth was loose across his scrawny chest and lap, but the opposite on Dean. Sam watched him out of the corner of his eye this morning as he shifted back and forth against pinches from either side, swearing under his breath but still wearing it despite all the eye-rolling and bitching every time he clicked the belt home with a grunt.

Math wasn't quite Sam's best subject, but he was good enough with numbers to estimate that, in the few months Dean had spent eating more with green eyes trained on Sam to see his reaction, Dean had put on thirty or maybe even forty pounds. Health class and library research told Sam that wasn't impossible, wasn't anywhere near as much as a person could gain in that time, but it was still impressive as all get out.

Whether Dean drew Sam into him with a tight grip and a groan when he shyly touched the marshmallow bloat of him, or pulled away looking like he wished he could peel all that softness right off himself before Sam could even see, depended totally on how long it'd been since Dad was last home. Since Dad last spoke to Dean.

More anger. Sam looked out the window as their latest shitty little town, exactly the same as the million other shitty little towns across the country they'd slid through in the past and were gonna slide through in the future, rolled by.

He spent all morning impatient, fidgety, smiling to himself. A kid he was actually halfway to okay with, who could maybe be a friend if they stayed here longer than a few weeks, asked, "Who's the lucky girl, Winchester?"

But it was nothing like that. Sam fiercely told himself it wasn't, it wasn't the same at all and never would be.

He met Dean out in the parking lot, excited, beaming, and Dean laughed when he saw him.

"You'd think it was Christmas," he said, and then slung himself into the car (it rocked, just barely, on its shocks) and reached for his seatbelt. Sam did the same

They'd barely left the school behind when Dean casually asked, "So how we doing on the cash front?"

"We're good," Sam assured him automatically. "We can afford this. Uh, it's...it was the same as we always get and we've got a couple hundred left. We're doing fine." He nodded firmly.

Dean was quiet for a second. "Still not gonna let me have a look at it?"

Sam squirmed. "I…" He glanced at Dean, quick, and then away. "Dad, um, he gave it to me, and he was really strict about it, and I don't wanna - "

"I get it," Dean interrupted. "Yeah. Don't wanna give him anything else to get pissed about. He's gonna fly off the handle anyway, soon as he gets home and figures out I haven't lost any weight." He dropped a hand to his stomach, squeezed. "Gained, actually."

Sam looked down at his hands, squeezed them together. His knuckles looked huge and jutting and he could see his veins. Biting his lip, he quietly said, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. It's just fine. Hey. Sammy?" There was a gentle note in Dean's voice. "Look at me, okay?" Sam did. "It's okay. I promise." Dean smiled. "I knew what I was getting into."

They'd reached the Chinese place, with all the hand-lettered signs in its windows advertising the three-dollar lunch buffet. Dean parked. Then he ruffled a hand through Sam's hair and kissed his forehead, quick. Just a peck. But god, if it wasn't warm.

There were other kids from school inside. Nobody Sam recognized, but their age gave them away. Open campus, a place this cheap so close: it was a no-brainer. Sam felt their eyes on the two of them, mainly on Dean. On the mountain of empty plates that he piled up at the edge of their table and a waiter faithfully cleared away. Dean didn't seem to care as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful of heavy, greasy food, eyes closed or half-closed in bliss the entire time they were there.

Sweet and sour pork, beef with broccoli, potstickers, egg rolls, General Tso's chicken, crab wontons, lemon shrimp, fried rice, egg drop soup...Dean was a bottomless pit and Sam was mesmerized, watching him pack in the calories. He knew his belly was growing underneath the table, and not being able to see it was driving Sam crazy. He imagined the freckles, the warm softness, could practically feel it against his mouth and hands, Dean's shirt riding up in the face of all that bloat. When Dean reached down to undo his fly with a grunt, Sam had to hide a shuddering little gasp in his Coke as something pulsed hot between his legs.

Sam didn't eat much. His stomach was tight with excitement and even though he knew he should be hungry, knew he was, he felt sick. He wasn't sure if he was trembling from low blood sugar or just being so into this. He only managed a few bites off one plate, but he also got a lot of rich, salty egg drop soup down, so he decided to call it good.

It was plenty when he was sick, right? Hot plate Campbell's in a motel bowl, or just styrofoam, Dean's hand combing through his fever-sweaty hair, Sam's head pillowed on a thigh that got steadily softer as Dean got older. Just so long as Dad wasn't around to snap at Dean for treating Sam like a baby and Sam for acting like one.

"Not eating a whole lot over there," Dean observed around a mouthful of moo shu pork.

"Oh." Sam picked up his spoon, stirred his soup. "Yeah, it was a kid's birthday in third period. Brought in cookies."

Dean was nodding in that way he had where Sam couldn't tell whether he bought it or not. "Well, guess you don't exactly love stuff like this anyway." He pointed to the grease on his own plate, and Sam nodded, too. "Not like I do."

And he did like it. He proved it by gorging for another twenty minutes, all the other kids cleared out, most of the rest of the lunch crowd tapering off, too. Then, finally done, he slid out of the booth and forced himself up with a grunt. Sam saw how he had to suck in and even then, still struggled a little to get free. There was a slight jiggle to him, all of him, except for his belly. Huge. Swollen firm. Spilling out of a shirt that'd rolled up and pants that'd been unbuttoned.

Sam panted, squirming. Dean made a face as he straightened, then burped. Out loud, like he didn't care who heard him. When it was just the two of them and no Dad, Sam didn't think he did.

"I gotta take a leak." Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Then we oughta get you back to school."

Sam nodded, jerky and so fast he wasn't sure he didn't pull a muscle in his neck.

"I, uh...I gotta go, too." He counted out money for a tip with fingers that weren't doing a great job of cooperating, and that gave Dean enough time to cross the restaurant and disappear into the Men's door. Sam got up and hurried after him on weak legs.

There wasn't anybody else in the bathroom, thank god. Dean, standing at the urinal like he needed a second to figure out the mechanics with his full stomach in the way, turned to him, and Sam stopped, shyness hitting him all of a sudden like a baseball bat to the shins. He swallowed, then took a step forward, and put both hands on Dean's middle. He could practically feel all the food inside pressing out against his palms. He went lower, to the bare skin, and it was like Dean had a fire just under the surface; felt incredible against Sam's wet, Coke-cold hands.

"What're you doing?" Dean asked, and the throaty rumble of his voice had Sam falling to his knees, too hard, doorknob bone on tile sending pain all the way up to the top of his skull, but he hardly noticed.

He pressed himself into Dean, groan that turned into a breathy whine at the end rolling out of him, swallowed up by the salt-and-soap taste of Dean's skin because his open mouth was on it. He nuzzled as his hips twitched forward, so much softness on top even with how tight Dean had packed himself. It was scary and exciting at the same time, how much Sam liked this, even after months of it.

Dean's hand was in his hair, cupping the back of his head, fingers dragging at the shape of his skull, belly heaving as he panted. He was pushing Sam harder into himself and Sam went, mouth full of freckles and that wispy hair that ran down from Dean's belly button. It lasted maybe a minute. Then Dean had his hands under Sam's armpits and dragged him up, setting him back on his feet.

"We can't do this in here," Dean said hoarsely, full mouth wet and eyes glossy dark. Sam wanted to argue, because of course they could, especially if they went and got in the handicapped stall. His knees were already bruised, might as well make the best of it. But he could see Dean literally forcing himself to be the mature adult here, and he could see how hard it was, so he just nodded his understanding.

He shrugged out of his coat, much as he wanted to keep it on because he was freezing, and held it in front of him as they left the restaurant. Dean didn't need to worry about anybody looking at his groin with the size of his belly. He had to stifle two burps before they even made it out the door.

Sam watched, biting his lip so hard it hurt, hands buried between his legs and thighs clamped around them, as he watched Dean cram himself in behind the wheel of the car. It was a hell of a lot harder than it'd been even that morning, with all the bacon and eggs in him. As Dean got them out of the parking lot, heel of his hand spinning a slow turn, he glanced at Sam.

"So you wanna go back to school?" Dean asked him, then frowned when Sam shook his head.

"I can't," Sam said. "I need…" He trailed off, eyes on Dean, then gave him a pleading look.

Dean heaved a sigh, and Sam saw how he was pumped but trying to hide it.

"Fine. But this is the last day you're missing while we're in town." He fixed Sam with a serious look, and Sam just nodded.

They wound up out on a back road, dirt, empty fields and thin forest all around, only a few minutes from the motel. They climbed into the back seat, more room for both of them even though Dean was panting and swearing the entire time, and Sam was instantly all over Dean. Squeezing and rubbing just to feel the heavy, solid shape of him, and because he knew it felt good. Sure enough, Dean dropped his head back with a groan, eyes falling closed. Sam watched the flutter of his lashes, the movement of his lips, then lowered his mouth to Dean's belly again. He kissed, shy, nosed at the softest and tightest parts, practically nursed off the silky skin between scars.

"Better not give me a hickey," Dean warned, but his voice was rough with something good and he was petting Sam's head. His amulet glowed in the light where it rested on his chest, firebrand. "Freaking Dracula."

"Nobody would see it," Sam whispered into his brother's food-swollen gut. "Nobody but me."

He wanted to move, to grind into something. The pressure in him was threatening to burst, rising with every touch and kiss he gave Dean. But when he moved to climb into his lap, their usual position, Dean nudged him off. Gentle. Still a rejection.

Sam's breath hitched on the disappointed lump in his throat. It just hadn't been long enough.

"Sorry," Dean mumbled. "Just…"

"It's okay," Sam whispered. "I get it."

The moment was gone. He was more tired now than worked up, and he couldn't get it back, but maybe that was okay. It would've been a pain-in-the-ass cleanup in a bathroom back at school, and he could honestly do without that.

The car was warm from the two of them and the sunlight, and Sam could see sleepiness on Dean's face, too. He pressed himself against him again, different this time, arm wrapped around his belly and head on his chest next to the amulet, but still some distance between their legs and torsos, just in case. Sam felt like he was taking care of things and it was all gonna be okay.

Just so long as their father stayed away. Sam knew he wouldn't, but it was a nice thought.

* * *

It was a couple weeks later Dad got back.

Sam came out into the parking lot after school that day, looking for Dean, not feeling all that hot. His stomach cramped and he was dizzy and tired, and he really hoped he wasn't getting sick because he didn't wanna miss any more school than he absolutely had to, moving the way they did. Messing around with Dean.

But there was a big, black, glossy absence outside. The car was gone.

Sam didn't panic. But his mind started stuttering, flicking around. Did something happen? Did something get Dean? Or did he just not wanna see Sam? Did he decide all this was just too much and leave? Did Dad come and get him and did they both decide they were better off without him because Dean told him what was going on and they figured they didn't need such a nasty little freak in their lives?

Sam fumbled out his bulky Nokia, standing there in the middle of the school parking lot with kids and cars parting around him, and his fingers shook as he keyed in Dean's number.

Somebody answered on the first ring. It wasn't Dean.

"Sammy?" Dad asked, and Sam's tight, aching stomach sank. He swallowed.

"You're back," he said, evenly as he could.

"Yep. Had Duncan go ahead and drop me off at the high school, then I caught a ride back to the motel with your brother. We're waiting for you. Why don't you hurry on home so we can have a little family discussion?" Dad sounded way too calm. "I've barely been gone a month, but it looks like we got a lot to talk about."

Sam didn't have any option but to agree. "Yes, sir."

Dad hung up without saying anything else. Sam stood there, feeling his heartbeat hard in every corner of his body, paralyzed. He thought about Dean, alone with him for the drive home and now at the room, and his breath hitched. He imagined Dad seeing how Dean fidgeted in his seat. Would he have automatically put the belt on the way Sam liked him to? He wondered what their father was doing to Dean. What he'd said to him. And Sam could barely even put the phone away, but standing here and not moving wasn't gonna help anything, least of all Dean.

It was only a few miles from here to the motel. Sam ought to be able to handle that easy; he'd run way more than that before, uphill in a dark, wet forest with a backpack full of weapons on his shoulders. But this somehow felt damn near impossible. No way in hell was he calling Dad again, though, and telling him he needed a ride, so he managed. It was just slower than it should've been. Harder. Maybe he really was getting sick.

He remembered the first time that Dad had come home after...all this started up. The way he'd laid into Dean and the way that Sam just hadn't been able to keep quiet any longer.

"_Why don't you just lay off him?"_

"_Excuse me?"_

"_He can outrun me, he can throw a hatchet into a target from sixty feet, he's a better shot than either of us - so long as he can still do all that, why the hell's it matter what he looks like?"_

"_You better watch yourself, boy."_

"_Oh, yeah, or what?"_

"Or what" had turned out to be midnight laps around the whole of the motel building for both of them, Dean going slow to keep pace with Sam, quietly telling him he couldn't talk to Dad like that. Sam hadn't answered because the only thing he actually felt bad about was that Dean got punished, too.

He was gonna fight with Dad soon as he got home, he knew that, and just thinking about it wore him out. He fiercely told himself to nut up. Dean needed him.

By the time Sam got back to the room, breaths heaving, it was like his eyes were darting too fast and far for him to keep up with when he moved them. His thoughts were like hummingbirds he couldn't catch inside his skull, flashing from one point to the other without him seeing the path they took. His heart was beating so hard it hurt under his jaw. Nutting up was harder than he'd thought.

Dean was staring stony-faced at nothing when Sam came in, sitting at the table with Dad standing across from him. When he looked up at Sam, he jumped to his feet as his eyes widened, demanding, "What's wrong? You okay?"

"He's fine," Dad snapped without looking at Sam, just glaring at Dean. "Sit your fat ass back down."

The insult was like a spark on the tinder inside Sam, but he let it die for now, even as Dad glanced at him. Something moved in his eyes, but Sam couldn't read it.

"Get some water," Dad told him gruffly. "Then you sit down, too."

Sam chugged Dixie cup after cup in the bathroom, thirsty, throat burning, gasping for it. It was what he knew he needed at the time. By the time he made it to the kitchen table and took a seat, though, it was sitting heavy in his stomach, and he felt nauseous, bloated. He swallowed a sick burp as Dad looked at the two of them.

He just eyed them for a long second. It dragged on and on. And then, no warning, he grabbed a handful of Sam's hair. Sam flinched at the fire-bright sting in his scalp, tried to hide it.

"Thought I told you to cut this before I left," Dad said to Dean.

"Yes, sir."

"Just look at it. Look how easy it is for something to grab on. And look how bad it looks, so damn dull and greasy…that's what happens when you let it get too long." Dad let go. Sam slumped back in his chair with a gasp. "So what happened?"

"Guess it just slipped my mind," Dean said quietly, and Dad snorted.

"Yeah. Must've." Silence again, Dad looking back and forth between them both. "So I guess neither of you did what I asked you."

That roused Dean. Quiet, respectful, same way he always talked to Dad, he countered, "Sammy did everything you wanted him to. Homework, training, research. Been about the best kid I could ask for while you been gone."

"Definitely didn't help you slim down like I asked," Dad said flatly. "Didn't even manage to stop you from porking up any more."

Sam's head still hurt, but his stomach had settled, and he was breathing easier now. He found himself speaking up: "He didn't _need_ to slim down."

"Obviously," Dad snapped back, "he did. Just look at him." He flung a hand towards Dean.

"How long's it been since you actually watched him train?" Sam challenged before he could stop himself. Not that he'd planned on trying. "Since you watched him on a hunt instead of just obsessing over how big he is? Look, everybody's body type and metabolism's different, Dean - "

"That is not what we're talking about right now." Dad shut him down. "We're talking about the fact I gave you a simple task and you failed. Again."

Sam felt how that needled Dean, or thought he did. His eyes kept blinking over to Sam. But he was keeping his mouth shut.

"You had to spend way more than the money I left with you to feed him up the way you did," Dad went on. "And I swear to god, Sammy, you get caught taking a five-finger discount, I'm gonna leave you wherever they throw you twice as long as I did D - "

Sam yanked the money that was left out of his back pocket and slapped it down on the table. Dad stopped talking. Sam felt Dean's eyes on it but he was staring their father down, burning so hot with hate he was sure any thermometer would've shown a fever.

After a long, tense silence, Dad announced, "Neither of you are eating tonight. You wanna stick up for Dean so goddamn bad, I'm putting both of you on the same diet." He turned to Dean. "Maybe that'll finally give you the incentive you need to shrink that gut down." He pointed at him. "You. Pushups in the parking lot. And you…" He pointed to Sam. "I got a whole pile of bloody weapons that need cleaning, so you can make yourself useful. And wear gloves. Stuff actually burns worse once it's dried."

Sam scrubbed down knives, guns, and protective amulets for the next hour, muscles aching from the repeating back and forth of it, nausea spiking every time he got a whiff of what was coming off the metal. He stared out the window where Dean was doing pushup after pushup after pushup in the parking lot, Dad watching him with his arms folded across his chest, their eyes locked. Amulet swinging wildly, Dean's belly slapped the asphalt every time he went down.

Considering how long they were out there for, and considering Dean never slowed or shook as he hauled the bulk Sam'd nurtured on him up and down over and over, you'd think that would be enough to win Dad over. Obviously not, seeing as how he still held to the no-dinner rule.

Later that night, in the bathroom, Sam patched up Dean's bloody stomach on his knees. It wasn't the first time he'd cleaned up road rash on his brother, picking gravel out of seeping scrapes, and not even the first time it was Dad's fault. But this was different, made Sam madder than he'd thought he had the energy to feel.

Something was wrong with him. His stomach was hollow and tight, and his hands looked like bird bones as he worked. He felt like he was gonna cry at any second and he just wanted to lay down. He'd feel better when he woke up in the morning, he always did.

"Don't have to do that," Dean told Sam quietly. "Can deal with it myself."

"I don't mind," Sam assured. A second passed. "Can't believe he made you do this to yourself."

"He didn't. Wouldn't've happened if I weren't so big."

Sam was quiet, weak and heartbroken inside.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "This is my fault."

"It's not." Dean shook his head. "It's okay."

Sam looked up at him, and then went to kiss his belly, unbroken skin. A rough palm against his forehead stopped him.

"We shouldn't do that while Dad's here."

Sam drew back, looked up again. Dean wasn't looking at him. He slowly lowered his head and finished up with Dean's raw, angry wounds.

They slept in separate beds, Dad out on the broken-down couch in the room's tiny living area. Sam didn't think he'd sleep, but the next thing he knew, Dean was shaking him awake and telling him he was gonna be late to school.

* * *

Dad dropped the whole "same diet" thing after a couple days. Dean pointed out to him Sam was going through puberty, growth spurts, that he was tiny and couldn't afford not to eat, and Dad seemed to agree with that. It didn't actually make a whole lot of difference, because Sam could barely eat anyway, with his stomach constantly in churning knots.

Dad didn't leave again. He didn't look for a new hunt. He'd decided that, since Sam and Dean obviously couldn't handle it on their own, he needed to stick around and keep a personal eye on them, Dean especially. How he trained, how much he ate. He told Dean he was gonna get him back down to a fighting weight by Christmas if it killed him. And he told Sam to stop walking around like somebody ran over his puppy. Wasn't this what he always wanted? Staying in one place, at one school, for a whole damn semester? Better fix that attitude quick, son, before somebody decides to fix it for you.

Their father was hellbent on weight loss, but Sam picked up pretty fast that Dad knew shit-all about nutrition. This "diet" he'd decided to put Dean on wasn't about eating healthier, just about eating less. A lot less. There weren't any salads or veggies or anything, because those were more expensive and money was better spent on casings than carrots. Dean skipped breakfast on Dad's orders, only ate half the free lunch they were on at school, and for dinner, usually just an order of fries or one section out of a frozen meal.

He didn't have to. Dad wasn't there at school. And half the time, he wasn't there at home, either, gone out for the night and still MIA the next morning. But Dean stuck to it anyway.

Sam knew what it felt like to be hungry. To force yourself to go hungry because you were doing the right thing or, in Dean's case right now, thought you were. It hurt to think about Dean feeling like that. So one day, two and a half weeks after Dad came back and stayed, he dug out the money he had stashed in his backpack, that he'd had there for years, trying to add to it often but usually not managing. It wasn't much. Just under twenty dollars. He'd thought about it going to a laptop, a train ticket, some other escape, hadn't ever decided on exactly what he wanted.

Sam took it to the nearest diner during his lunch period, running there and back on noodle legs with wet-paper joints to beat the bell, and bought two meals. Bacon cheeseburgers, fries, shakes. It was getting cold out and he held the styrofoam boxes against his chest.

He found Dean out behind the school, alone, waiting for him. Normally, he would've been at the car, the two of them eating on the sun-warm black hood, but Dad was back now. He wanted Dean walking to school.

Dean was shocked as Sam laid everything out, wanting to know where he'd got the money, but Sam just told him, "I still had some. My money, not Dad's. It wasn't that much."

"You know I can't eat this," Dean stated. "Already had all Dad wants me to."

"Please," Sam pleaded. "Dean, c'mon, it's your favorites, and it's gonna get cold, and Dad doesn't have to know." He broke out the puppy dog eyes, automatic as breathing. "One meal's not gonna, y'know…"

"Make me fatter?" Dean finished the sentence for him. "Not sure Dad would agree with your reasoning there, Sammy."

"_Please," _Sam begged.

"Fine," Dean relented after a long, wavering minute. "But we're gonna share it."

He pointed a stern finger at Sam, who shook his head. Dean needed this. "I ate a salad at the diner."

"Great, so you oughta still have plenty of room left." Dean wasn't budging. "C'mon, Sammy, you need to make up for those couple days where Dad starved you. I know this ain't your favorite meal but it's hot and it'll stick to your ribs."

Sam looked at the boxes, then up at Dean. They both knew Dean could eat all of it, no problem, and probably a third on top of that.

"I'm not eating 'less you help out," Dean stated, and Sam gave in.

"Sharing" turned into Sam eating about half of one of the fry orders, a few bites of a cheeseburger, a couple gulps of either shake. The food felt heavy and greasy and awful in his stomach the whole rest of the afternoon, frequent waves of nausea spinning off it. He thought about running to the bathroom because he didn't wanna puke all over his desk and be known as that kid in addition to all the other weird stuff they already knew him for here.

But Dean had put two of the fries between Sam's lips with his thick fingers, had cupped his jaw as he'd swallowed, and he'd looked so damn pleased to see Sam eating with him that Sam didn't have any choice. He tried to hang onto it. For Dean.

Silent tears came up with half-digested food when he couldn't hold it back anymore, bent over a trash can in the empty boys' locker room and praying no one found him and his brother never heard.

* * *

Around the tail end of October, Dad started getting antsy, just like he always did when he was cooped up in one place too long with an injury or something else. He kept talking about cases, or maybe just one. Sam thought he caught something about water babies out west. But he missed out on half the things people said to him these days, couldn't seem to focus.

He was just so angry all the time, felt so bad, seething under his skin for Dean as he watched their dad starve him and make him work himself half-dead to try and lose weight. At home, they barely saw each other, because while Dean was doing wind sprints in the freezing rain, John had Sam on research for other hunters. No, Uncle Bobby couldn't do it, and why the hell did he bring him up, anyway? He knew they didn't talk to him anymore. He could finish his homework in the morning if it was so damn important to him.

They were out at a diner one night. Dad called it "taking a break." He ordered for Dean, water and a kid's meal, and the waitress wasn't buying that Dean was under twelve.

Sam couldn't blame her. Not a whole lot of twelve-year-olds out there stood just shy of six feet with thighs and biceps that looked like they could crush watermelons, or had heartbreak smiles like Dean did. Even if Dean didn't smile all that much lately.

"Even if he ain't under twelve, he doesn't need the calories." Dad practically growled it. "Just look at him."

Obviously uncomfortable, the waitress clicked her pen. "I'm sorry, sir. We've got a policy."

"Fine. It's for him, then." Dad gestured to Sam, then glared at him. "Order for your brother."

"Chicken noodle soup." Soup was good, easy to get down. And some part of Sam was still thinking that it was also cheap. More money for Dad to leave with him the next time he took off.

The waitress took their order and left, fast.

Sam watched Dean's meal come out, tiny little burger cut in half, sad pile of tater tots. Dean didn't say a word as he picked up half the burger, thick fingers dwarfing it. Sam stirred his soup. He added salt even though he hadn't tasted it yet.

"I learned about losing weight in school," he mentioned to whoever was listening, pouring on the forced, fake calm. "The healthy way to do it. See, what you do is eat a good breakfast. Eat lots of fruits and veggies and lean meats, and get a lot of exercise. Sometimes just eating less isn't enough and skipping breakfast is just about the worst thing you can do. It basically puts you in starvation mode, and not only are you a lot less likely to lose weight, you're actually more likely to - " He choked on the words for a second, a mouthful of spit. " - gain more."

Next to Sam, Dean tensed. Dad was chewing on a bite of bacon cheeseburger. He swallowed, wiped his mouth, then reached for his Coke as, voice measured, he asked, "What exactly are you trying to say, Sammy?"

"Not only is what you're doing stupid…" The faint, fluttery feeling Sam carried everywhere in his chest these days made him brave. "You're going about it in the stupidest possible way."

Dean's reaction was instant.

"Cut it out," he snapped, hand coming up to cuff the back of Sam's head. He nearly sent his face into his soup, grabbed the back of his neck to keep him upright, and Sam heard the apology sneak into his voice, even though he hadn't hit him that hard. "Stop talking like that."

"You've been way over the line for weeks now," Dad agreed. "'Bout time you remembered who you're talking to."

"I know exactly who I'm talking to," Sam replied, fiercely.

"Then you know Dad's just trying to help." Dean took a bite of his pitiful burger, spoke around it. "Just let him do what he does, Sammy. He knows what's best."

Sam said nothing, but he clenched shaking fists under the table. Dad watched him for a long time, then shook his head and took another gulp of Coke.

"Keep it up, Sammy," he said flatly. "You're cruising for a bruising."

After dinner, Dad dropped them off at the room and left, and they both just pretended like he wasn't going out to get drunk and maybe laid. If he hadn't already banged his way through every lonely waitress in this stupid little backwater. Sam sat on the couch, homework in his lap, and watched Dean do the situps Dad ordered him to.

His stomach rose like bread dough, then settled, squishing and spreading as he went up and down. His amulet had fallen back over one shoulder. Sam was cold even with two blankets draped over him, shaking with it. He didn't wanna do his homework. He couldn't think straight and motivation was miles away, but he had to do this, had to keep his grades up. It was the one thing he could do to get both of them out of here someday.

"I wish Dad wouldn't talk about you like that," Sam said quietly. "I wish he wouldn't treat you like he is."

Dean paused on the last situp, then laid down as he sighed through his nose, looking up at Sam.

"Look, man," he started, "I get what you're trying to do, and I appreciate it, but you gotta stop locking horns with him."

"But you stick up for me," Sam pointed out, and did not mention the times Dean didn't. "I'm just…"

"I know, but this is...just the price I gotta pay. For this." He patted his stomach. Sam said nothing when it growled, and Dean was quiet for a while. "Maybe he's right. Maybe I really oughta try and lose the weight."

Sam's voice came out small. "I thought you liked it."

"I do, but if Dad's right about it screwing with hunting - "

"He's _not_," Sam interrupted, but god, did he ever wish he was. He wished Dean was huge and soft like a giant marshmallow, belly begging for Sam to sink into it, the whole of him so big Dad couldn't hope to make him hunt again or lose weight or even _move _him. He wished Dean were just his. All his.

"He is." Dean pushed back, and Sam's eyes stung. "It's a problem. It's getting in the way of what, y'know, what's important here."

"Hunting," Sam said flatly.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, and rubbed at his face. "Always."

Dean sat up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm just tired." Sam wanted to dive into Dean's arms. He wanted to cry into his soft chest while he held him so tight it hurt all his bony parts. But he knew that if he even tried, Dean would hold him out at arm's length, because they couldn't do that with Dad around. "I'll have to finish this in the morning."

Laying in bed, shivering, he wished he'd been less angry at the diner, because then he could've eaten more of the soup. Maybe that would help the fire running from his belly button to his throat.

* * *

A couple weeks passed, edging them into November. Snow fell. Running water froze. Things got worse.

Sam was wearing two coats at school, sitting under the vent in every class he could manage, grateful for the heavy hair Dad said he wouldn't cut 'til they were back in the saddle, but the thing that kept him hottest was the anger. At Dad, for what he was doing. At Dean, for going along with it. And at himself. Because it was all his fucking fault. Should've kept his damn mouth shut and his bony little hands to himself, he ruined everything he touched.

Dean must've figured that out, too, because he wasn't talking to Sam hardly at all anymore, wasn't even looking at him. Definitely wasn't touching him, and Sam told himself that he deserved the ache that rooted in his bones, deeper even than the hunger. Dean stayed sullen and slow and ate what Dad said he could eat. Even when he didn't feel sick, Sam ate about the same amount. Same thing: what he deserved.

Dad wanted to hunt. He said he couldn't until Dean could back him up. He said Dean couldn't do that 'til he lost weight. And it must have been getting more and more obvious to him that Dean wasn't losing weight. In fact, he might've even been up a couple pounds, to look at him.

Dad was like a caged animal, pacing and growling, trawling for cases with Sam, punishing Dean one calorie and crunch at a time for the fact he wasn't working cases. It was the most attention he'd paid either of them in years and Sam felt like his skin was being peeled off.

"It's like you actually want people to die!" He bellowed that at them both, mostly Dean, one night. "It's like you don't even wanna find the thing that killed your mother!"

They were silent. What could you even say to that? He left and slammed the door behind him. When they got home from school the next day, Dad was back, face like a winter stormfront.

"Sit down," he said quietly, and they sat.

Sam was nauseous. That was nothing new.

"You oughta be down twenty pounds by now," Dad said to Dean, after a long silence. He was leaning on the table, both hands. "Why aren't you?"

"I don't know, sir." Dean's eyes were on Dad's hands.

"You look at me when I'm talking to you." Dean did. "Now, I'll tell you why you haven't slimmed down, even with the diet and all the exercise." Dad straightened. "Because I'm the only one around here who's been pulling my own damn weight. Literally."

"I've been working hard as I can," Dean tried.

"The hell you have."

"No, I-I swear. Seriously, Dad, I've been - "

"Then why," Dad interrupted, "are you somehow fatter now than when we started?" He stared Dean down, and Sam was afraid that if he blinked, a decade would be stripped off his brother and there'd be a shaking eight-year-old there. After a pause that stretched on and on, excruciating, Dad said, "You've been sneaking food. At school, and when I'm gone."

Dean swallowed. "I…"

"He hasn't," Sam said quickly. It'd only been once or twice, after all. It hardly counted.

Dad's attention swung to him. "Oh, you know that for sure, huh? 'Cause I don't think I trust you on that one. Haven't exactly done a great job with this so far." He leveled a finger at Sam. "You've been feeding him."

"No, it was all me," Dean cut in. "I bought it, I ate it. He didn't have anything to do with it."

"You expect me to believe that?" Dad demanded. "Every single time I've left you alone with him, I come back, and you're ten pounds heavier!" He pushed off the table, stalked back and forth in front of him. "Hell're you feeding him, Sammy, fried butter? Heavy cream?"

"He didn't have anything to do with this," Dean repeated, desperate, voice rising.

"Shut up. I'm just about fed up with the two of you lying to me. Not to mention watching you blow up, Dean." Dad turned to Sam, voice practically loud enough to rattle the windows, and the next thing Sam knew he was in his face. "You are killing your brother!"

"No, _you _are!" Sam shouted back.

He didn't want to cry, but his eyes stung as a headache settled in behind them. Dean was staring at him, gaping, practically. But it was too late. The damage was done.

Dad straightened, stepped back, his heat vanished like a candle puffing out.

"You're going outside and training 'til you've shifted some of that pudge," he told Dean, quiet and cold. "And Sam's going with you."

There was dinner. For Dad and Sam, at least. Sam didn't eat. They left soon as Dad was done.

Carrying practically all their weapons, Dad took them out beyond the parking lot, into the woods and fields. The long golden evening of fall came early, a bite to the air that Sam felt all the way through him, cold and shaking even in two flannels and a heavy jacket. He only forced down a few bites at lunch. He would have had more, would've made Dean have more, if he'd known this would happen.

"Just can't help yourself, huh," Dean said under his breath as they walked. Sam didn't reply.

Target practice was first, guns and bows. Sam's aim was way off and that didn't calm Dad down any. He probably thought he was doing it on purpose.

"You're lucky I'm not making you pay for the ammo," he told him, and when a neon-fletched arrow vanished in the dark brush, shoved him hard. "There. Dead. Chupacabra got you."

Sam saw Dean's eyes on his hands, shaking on the grip of the gun and the string of the spiderweb compound bow. There was a guarded kind of concern dawning in him by the time Dad ordered them into sparring formation.

It'd been a while since the two of them actually faced off. Mostly, it'd been Dad working Dean into a red-faced, staggering sweat every night, leaving his soft body splotched with uncaring bruises. It was a lot harder than Sam remembered, and he could even tell Dean was going easy on him. He scaled it way back after the first punch he threw clipped Sam and spun him in the gravel. He would've fallen if he hadn't had a tree to slap a cold-numb hand onto.

Sam couldn't dodge like he was used to, which used to be his main advantage. He couldn't kick as high or hit as hard as he wanted. And he couldn't catch his breath, sweat dripping off him under all his layers, worn cotton sticking to the jutting parts of him. He didn't take anything off, though, because he knew he'd be freezing again soon as he stopped.

He missed a step, took a header. Dean caught him with a hand against his bicep and now he was really concerned.

"What's wrong with you?" He looked him up and down in the dying light. "You...you don't look too good, Sammy."

Sam heard the crunch of their father's boots as he sucked wind. "'M fine. Can take it." He looked up at Dad once he was close enough, and glared, because no matter how sick he felt or how weak he got, he couldn't stop feeding the flame of his anger. "After...after all. Can't be that hard if...you're somehow not losing any...weight on it."

Dad's mouth was hard and thin as the blade of a buck knife.

"Feel like running your mouth, huh? Then why don't you give me four or five miles?" Dad shaded his eyes with a hand, squinted out past the setting sun. "Couple laps on those trails that loop around here oughta do it. Out past the fields."

"Dad, no, c'mon, don't make him do anything else tonight," Dean started. "He just needs to go back to the room. I think there's something seriou - "

"He can smart off," Dad snapped back. "He can run." Moving out of their way, he ordered, "get your asses in gear. And Dean, you better stay ahead of him the whole way. Hardly be burning calories if you don't."

Sam actually liked running. It was one of the few parts of training he did. It only started recently, him noticing the rhythm of his gangly, awkward body, the beauty of every mismatched piece of him moving in a smooth harmony of pulling and pushing and burning and straining, the floating feeling he got after not too long. It was something he felt like he was good at, even if Dean was faster. And that was a nice, rare feeling.

He'd barely begun to appreciate it and now it was awful again. Worse than before. He couldn't stand it, it felt like he was dying. It was even harder than when he'd hurried home after Dad answered Dean's phone. He wished for the energy he'd had back then.

Dean outpaced him fast, which wasn't weird. He might weigh more, a lot more, a ton more, and he might have those bowed-out legs, but there were still thick muscles in those thighs and calves. Way thicker than Sam's skinny, too-long legs.

Sam made it about halfway. A painful, desperate couple miles. Dean had disappeared around a bend a few minutes before as Sam's vision swam and throbbed. It felt like he was moving forward purely out of hate for Dad, and he wanted to cry with every step, drywall bones grinding and aching and every muscle in his body trembling. Even his clothes were too heavy but he still couldn't shed any layers.

Suddenly, he made a wrong move. His legs weren't doing what he wanted them to. His feet tangled and he went down, and it hurt so much worse than it should have. He could feel bruises blooming on his sharp points, gravel dug in under his skin. Sam cried out, but it was weak, tears swimming in his eyes and clotting his lashes together.

He just laid there for a second, hoping to get his strength back, catch his breath. He realized after a while that it wasn't going to happen, so he just went to pick himself up. His arms shook as they struggled to bear his weight. Then his stomach lurched out of nowhere and he was dry-heaving onto the dirt road.

Sam had puked during training before but this was different. It hurt more, it burned, it brought up acid that seemed to eat his teeth soft. It felt like something had its claws down his throat, hooked into his stomach, trying to drag it up along the curve of his spine. Maybe the chupacabra that killed him earlier.

Tears ran down his face and he had to rest his forehead in the dirt when it was all over, weak and sweaty and dizzy but, mercifully, feeling a little better.

Sam's own heartbeat and breath were so harsh and loud he didn't even hear Dean sprinting back to him until his brother was dropping to his knees so hard he skidded. Sam jerked and tensed, panicking, not wanting Dean to see him like this. He snapped upright and stared wide-eyed at Dean, but what was he gonna do as he reached for him and brushed dirt off his face? Run away?

"What's the matter?" Dean demanded. "You too hot? You got a fever or something? Looks like you might - Christ, Sammy, why the hell'd you keep all these layers on to run? You're soaked to the goddamn bone."

He started stripping the jacket and flannels off Sam. Sam tried to tell him not to, because he was so wet, he was gonna get so cold, but Dean undressed him anyway. Under different circumstances, Dean's heavy-hanging belly pressing against Sam's thighs and his rough hands jerking his clothes off him might be getting Sam hard. He didn't have the energy for it right now.

Dean went so far as to pull Sam's T-shirt off over his head. And when he did, he just sat there in the twilight, staring. Sam wasn't sure what he was looking at. He glanced down at himself, then looked harder, really looked. For the first time in months. Not just quick and unseeing during showers and changes of clothes, telling himself he was fine and it was just his usual skinny knobbiness.

He'd known he was losing weight. That was what happened when you didn't eat. He'd always been small and knew he was getting on the wrong side of it, he knew he felt bad, he just...didn't know that it was this.

The baby softness he showed Dean that night with the pizza was gone. There were jutting ribs, a sunken stomach, a collarbone shelving out like a halo, and it shocked Sam more than any sucker punch from a monster ever could. He was dappled with more bruises than he'd ever seen on Dean and he didn't remember where most of them had come from.

Sam had seen a lot of corpses, skin dried taut over bones, everything between rotted away, and he looked like one of them.

Dean touched him gently, and even cold-chapped, his hands felt good. Warm. Sam's eyes fell closed.

"Son of a bitch." When Sam opened his eyes, Dean was staring right at him. "What happened?"

"I - I - " Sam stuttered. "I guess I haven't really...been eating enough…"

"Yeah, obviously, but _why_?"

Sam flinched, and stared down at his clasped, bony hands. "I don't know," he said, even as he realized that he did. But he didn't want Dean to feel bad. It was all his choice, and he knew Dean would beat himself up anyway. He squeezed his eyes shut as more tears threatened to ooze out.

Next thing he knew, he heard the rustle of fabric, and something heavy and warm that smelled like Dean draped around him. He opened his eyes: Dean's flannel. His jacket was next, Dean hurrying to get him covered up against the cold before he said anything else.

"The money. What Dad left with you, what you wouldn't let me see, when he was wanting you to try and get me to lose weight." Dean zipped up the jacket. "How much was it?" When Sam shook his head, mute, Dean repeated, "How much?"

"Less than he usually leaves with you," Sam admitted quietly.

"But I was eating same as I always do." Even though he wasn't looking at him, Sam could hear Dean's clenching jaw. "Which means you were starving yourself."

"You've done it before," Sam pointed out. "So I could eat. I just wanted - "

"That's different," Dean interrupted. "I'm bigger, and my metabolism's slower. Obviously. And besides, that was to keep you from going hungry. Not so you could keep stuffing yourself like some kind of pig. You didn't need to kill yourself to keep me fat."

Sam sniffed, rubbing at his eyes and looking away. Dean softened.

"You were so excited," he said quietly. "About us. This." He touched his stomach. "So damn excited. Were you forgetting to eat? Was that part of it, too?"

Sam kept his eyes aimed away and didn't admit Dean was right, because it made him sound so stupid. Stupider than he already knew he was. Dean seemed like he'd figured it out anyway, though.

"And Dad's just been making it worse," Dean went on.

"Yeah, but...it's not just that." Sam shook his head. "I'm actually sick now. I can't eat very much and my stomach's bothering me all the time…"

"Yeah, of course. It shrunk and you're starving. Literally starving. Not like what you said was going on with me." Dean wasn't in anything but a T-shirt now. "You need stomach-flu food. Crackers, ginger ale. And just a little at a time. Not the kinda crap we eat."

Sam stared at the amulet on Dean's soft chest, bouncing and swaying with every movement. Voice small, he asked, "Are you gonna tell Dad?"

Dean didn't say anything for a second. Sam's throat shrank. But then Dean shook his head.

"We can deal with this by ourselves."

"What're we gonna do?"

"I'm gonna take care of you." Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder and looked at him. "I'm gonna get you better. You don't gotta worry."

Then he pulled Sam against him, wrapping him in the first hug he'd given him in weeks, holding him tightly. Sam's eyes fell closed. The softness, the warmth...they were heaven. He could've fallen asleep like that, but it didn't last nearly long enough. He almost whimpered as Dean let go of him.

"Need me to carry you?" Dean asked. Sam shook his head.

"I can walk." He wasn't sure if he could or not, but being carried like a baby would be too embarrassing. Much as he liked being so close to Dean.

"All right." Dean grabbed Sam's clothes, cold and damp, and tucked them under one arm as he got up with a grunt. "We're about halfway through. Might as well keep going."

He took Sam's hand, hauled him to his feet. Sam wobbled, but stayed there. He hadn't noticed at first because the light was different (and he'd been kinda distracted), but now he realized he recognized this place. They'd parked the car here the day they'd gone out to lunch. It felt so long ago, a happy memory that might as well have happened to somebody else.

"C'mon." Dean tugged on Sam. "I wanna get you back home. We gotta get you something to eat."

They started walking. Sam leaned heavily into Dean, who was nice enough not to say anything about the fact he was more than half-carrying him. After a couple minutes, Sam laughed a little, bleakly. His voice shook when he talked.

"I can't believe I was so stupid."

"Yeah, me neither," Dean agreed. "But it's okay. We're gonna fix it."

"It's just...doing all this for…" Sam looked down at his sneakers, too big for him because they used to be Dean's. He bit his lip as tears filled his eyes again. It felt like he didn't have enough water in his body for all this crying, especially with the sweating he'd done earlier. He had a headache and his nose was cold and dripping. "...something you don't even like."

"What're you talking about, Sammy?"

"Th-_this_. All this. Getting bigger, a-and me - "

"What? Hey. I do like it. I told you I like it."

"B-but you're trying so hard to get rid of it, you wanna get rid of it, and you hate it, a-and…" Sam was full-blown sobbing again now. "And you don't even look at me lately…"

When he risked a look at Dean's face, that seemed to have hit him like a punch in the gut.

"That's 'cause Dad's around," he said.

"But even when he's not, when he's out or we're out and we're alone and we could touch each other, you're not…" Sam swallowed painfully, throat raw and swollen and tight. "You're not doing it. You don't want me."

Dean stopped walking, so of course Sam did. Next thing he knew, he was in a hug so tight it nearly hurt, practically sinking into Dean, enveloped by him exactly the way that he wanted to be. It was even better than when they'd been on the ground. With Dean's oversized clothes bundled up around him, Sam sobbed into the pillow softness of his brother's belly.

"I love it," he heard Dean say above him, quiet, serious. "And I'm sorry. For being so wrapped up in me and Dad that I didn't even notice what was going on with you. Everything you were missing, how bad you were doing." He squeezed him harder. Sam sank deeper. "Never gonna happen again. Promise."

Sam pushed himself halfway free, wiped at his face with the heel of one freezing hand. The skin was scraped and it stung. He felt like he was one giant mess of snot and tears and bone and bruises right now. Looking up at Dean, he started, "But Dad - "

"He'll get tired of it," Dean said with rock-solid surety. "Just like he always does. We'll get through it, and things'll go back to normal. We'll pick up right back where we left off."

That sounded good to Sam. More than good. He rested his forehead against Dean, and let him hug him again. Dean stroked his hair, and they just stood there like that for a long, long time, until Dean softly said, "You're shivering, Sammy." So they started walking again.

Sam's throat was jumping, breath hitching, sniffing back residual tears and mucus as they walked. But he felt better than he had in months. Dean kept him close to his side, steadying hand on him, Sam leaning into the soft swells of his hip and love handle. He listened to Dean think out loud to himself as darkness fell, ramble like he always seemed to when he was upset or afraid or just felt like stuff was too quiet.

"Main thing's gonna be to keep you from getting cold 'til you get some meat back on those bones. And eating...probably can't feed you a whole lot all at once, huh? Don't wanna make you sick. We gotta get your blood sugar up tonight, though. Got a couple vending machines back home, so how's peanuts and soda sound? Or PopTarts? Swear I saw PopTarts in there. Oh, and with the way it freaking floored you tonight, we gotta put a kibosh on training, least for now..."

"Dad won't like that," Sam said quietly.

"You let me handle Dad," Dean replied, and his hand tightened on Sam's shoulder.

It was pitch black out by the time they got back to the trailhead. Dad was waiting there with a flashlight, the bag of weapons next to his boots and his arms crossed over his chest.

"'Bout time the two of you showed up," he called to them. "Starting to think maybe something picked you off." His face was in shadow, but Sam felt him looking at Dean. "What? That run just too much for you?"

"No, sir," Dean replied. "Sammy just needed a little bit of a breather."

"That's an awful convenient excuse."

Neither of them said anything as they headed slowly back to the motel. Dad did snap at Dean, once, to pick up the pace, but Dean stayed put. Next to Sam. Sam was still shivering, but that lit something warm and glowing inside him.

In the room, Dean sat Sam down gently on the couch, smoothing his shaggy hair back from his face. Sam didn't even try to hide the way he leaned into the touch. Down on one knee, Dean took a look at Sam's palms in the light, then swore softly.

"Go wash these," he told Sam, looking up at him. "I'll try and dig some of the grit outta here later, but for now, top priority's getting food in you."

He headed for the door. Dad, on his way in from dumping the weapons and flashlight in the car, demanded, "Where d'you think you're going?"

"Vending machines."

"You kidding me?" Dad stopped Dean with a hand flat against his chest. "That's what you do after a training session? Just go out and pack back on all the calories I just had you burn off? No wonder you can barely fit in the damn car."

Still on the couch, Sam fisted his hands in Dean's jacket, stinging more and more as they warmed up and swelled. He burned from his teeth on down, watching the two of them.

"It's for Sammy," Dean said quietly.

"He didn't eat his damn dinner," Dad shot right back. "Pitched the whole thing straight into the garbage, so he doesn't get any kinda candy or treats. Thought we established that back when he was six." Dad shoved Dean back, into the room. Dean went. He didn't stumble. "I told you to take care of him. That's all I want outta you. And right now, you're doing a pretty piss-poor job of it, aren't you? You want him to end up like you?"

Dean glanced over his shoulder. Sam couldn't read his face. "No."

"Good. 'Cause right now, he's the only one outta the two of you who's good for anything." Dad stabbed a finger at Sam. "And that ain't exactly saying a whole lot."

Sam swallowed. Something coiled up between Dean's shoulders.

"Maybe I oughta stop leaving him alone with you," Dad went on. "Since you obviously can't handle it and I'm not gonna have you fucking up my kid." Sam tensed so hard it hurt. "I never would've started if I'd known that this was how it was gonna turn out."

Dad was silent for a long few seconds, then sighed, disgusted, and looked away, shaking his head. He stated, "This is my fault. I let it get way further than I should've. And now I'm trying to clean up my mess, and it's like you don't even care you're fat and getting fatter, Dean. If something out there - " Voice rising, Dad pointed out into the night beyond the door. " - doesn't kill you, then _this _is gonna. Look at this!" He took a handful of Dean's stomach, fat soft and doughy. "There's no way on earth you could possibly defend yourself like this, let alone - "

"Don't touch him!" Sam launched himself to his feet, hating the way his voice cracked and came out shrill. Dean was just standing there and taking it. Did he even care?

Dad looked at Sam, and let go of Dean as Sam stalked up to the two of them on shaky, aching legs. It felt like his knees were gonna snap backwards any second and he kept having to swallow mouthful after mouthful of spit. He was so mad he didn't even know if he was feeling sick again or not.

"You got something to say, Sammy?" Dad asked him quietly.

"Yeah, I do."

"Sammy," Dean started. Sam turned to him.

"No, I don't fucking care anymore!"

"You really wanna use that kinda language with me, boy?" Dad asked.

"Yeah, I do."

Dad shook his head, slow, like he just couldn't believe it.

"Y'know, I'm just about sick of you. Of both of you, not showing me any damn respect."

Sam laughed at that, incredulous. "You think you deserve it? Treating Dean l-like absolute shit, like he's not worth anything just 'cause you don't think he can hunt big like he is, which is bullshit, by the way, he could totally kick your ass in a fair fight if you weren't so fixated on tearing him down all the time."

"Sammy," Dean tried again. Sam ignored him.

"Or actually, not all the time, huh?" He glared at their father. "'Cause you're never around. Are you?"

"Okay. Yeah. You need to eat something and get in bed, stat." Dean stepped towards Sam, but Dad snapped a hand up in a "stop" sign.

"Back the hell off," he ordered. "This is between me and your brother." When Dean didn't move, Dad looked at him, and his voice rose. "I said, step back!"

When Dean did, reluctant, Dad turned his attention back to Sam.

"Do I need to remind you how important it is?" he asked him, low. "What we do? Do I need to tell you, again, what happened to your mother? What killed her? How bad we need to find it and stop what happened to us from ever happening to anybody else ever again?" He looked back and forth between Sam and Dean. "Maybe the both of you need a refresher course in just how much the world needs hunters. 'Cause if your mother were still alive, she'd be crying over you two." He shook his head. "Fucking disappointments."

Anger flared high and hot in Sam, a glowing blade practically cleaving him in two, making the whole world flash and tilt around him. He hardly even knew what he was doing 'til he flung his arms wide and started talking.

"Yeah, well, she's not around, is she?" He was yelling. It felt like he didn't have enough air. "She's not around 'cause she's dead, and y'know what? Maybe that's a _good_ thing, seeing as - "

Sam wasn't totally sure, right away, what'd happened. Just that the whole left side of his face was suddenly lit with a starburst shock of ugly red pain. It knocked him flat on his ass because staying on his feet was never even an option, and he was dazed, eyes closed and unable to open, entire body aching and aftershocks bouncing through his skull. He was all confusion and agony. What the hell was that?

"Sammy?" That was Dad, fear in his voice. Then there was a quick thud of boots, a snarl from Dean, the dull impact of flesh-on-flesh and a loud _bang_ that rattled through the whole room, even jittering up into Sam from the floor he was laying on.

Dad grunted, gasped. Then Dean was next to Sam, his hands on him. Sam could feel the heat of him as he gently picked him up, cradling him, and his amulet, too. Sam's eyes finally fluttered open and he squinted up at the blurry, swimming figure of his brother. He felt weird, floaty. Wetness trailed out of his nose. The left side of his face felt hot and tight and tender, and that eye wouldn't open fully, seemed to be closing puffy on its own.

"Hey, it's okay, you're okay," Dean was soothing, half-panicked. "We're gonna get you outta here, I'm gonna take care of you. All gonna be okay."

He helped Sam up to his feet. Sam wasn't totally ready to go, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do to stay put, either. Once he was up, he saw their dad on the floor, slumped against the wall. The plaster was crumpled above him, a man's back hitting at high speed, and he looked half-shocked and half pissed as all hell.

Sam thought that that might've been the first time he realized that Dean was only about an inch shorter than Dad, and way, way heavier.

Dad was starting to struggle up, wheezing. "Dunno whathehell y'were - "

One arm tight around Sam, the only thing holding him up, Dean grabbed the car keys off the table by the door. Dad looked at the two of them. Sam wasn't sure what, exactly, he saw, but his eyes widened, and the anger started to drain away.

Some stayed, of course. There was always some. That was where Sam got it from, a bitter well that wasn't ever gonna run dry. He let himself all but disappear into Dean's soft curves.

"I didn't mean it." There was a cracked-rib wheeze in Dad's voice. Dean didn't even look at him as he yanked the door open and took Sam out. Sam heard one last word drifting after them: "Boys?"

They were in the car in half a second, Dean's getaway-driver, hit-the-ground-running muscle memory at work. Seatbelts on and keys in the ignition, engine roaring like a furious heart. Sam looked back as they pulled out of the parking lot with an action movie tire squeal. It tugged and stung at the swelling skin on his face. He saw Dad, leaning out of the doorway, and quickly faced front again.

They were a couple streets away, hauling ass, before Dean softly said, "You were out for a few seconds there."

Sam wasn't sure he had been. He'd heard everything, but he didn't say so.

"You remember what happened?"

It was coming back to him, in shakily-stitched flashes. Dad's tells, picked up from watching him spar with Dean because he never did with Sam. His shoulder had tilted, back in the room. His feet had moved, his fist cocked. Sam's brain had been running too slow and jerky to pick up on it, and he'd been distracted anyway.

"Yeah."

"Well, it's never gonna happen again." Dean's voice was a growl, tight as the skin on Sam's left eyelid. "Never. I can promise you, Sammy, I'm gonna take care of you."

Sam wiped blood out from under his nose. After a second, he asked, "Where're we going?"

"Way the hell away from here."

"And then?"

"Get you something to eat."

"...and then?"

"We'll figure it out."

Sam looked at Dean, and he could barely see him, in the light off rare streetlights and houses. Despite all the softness, there was a dangerous edge right at his surface, and he looked like he was ready to kill somebody. Sam hadn't seen him like this since...well, since the last time somebody had hurt Sam. It just. It hadn't ever been Dad before.

Dean reached over and flicked on the heat. It blasted over Sam like a blanket, drying out his open eye but feeling so, so good. It was minutes later Dean said, for the hundredth time that night, "I'm gonna take care of you."

All their things, clothes and weapons and books and IDs, were back in the room. Dad had probably already hotwired a car, was already looking for them. And Sam felt like he was butting up against the edge of some huge, dark hole, exhaustion and cold and hunger, he'd never get out of if he let himself fall in. But he laid down, stretching himself out on the seat, pillowing his head on Dean's soft belly where it spilled out of the seatbelt that did not fit him. The pressure on his face hurt. But he wasn't about to move. Especially not when Dean's hand came down off the wheel to stroke his hair.

"I know," Sam whispered, then said, "Get you something to eat, too."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. His voice rumbled through his stomach and into Sam. "Lots to eat."

Sam smiled into the mass of warmth and softness that was his older brother, the contact spreading through him like melting butter in a frying pan, and closed his right eye.


End file.
